


The Consequences of Surviving

by LoveInAllTheLonelyPlaces



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Anger Management, Depression, Drarry, Drug Abuse, F/M, I have no idea who's ending up with who besides that, I still think there should be an archive warning for, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Nothing is confirmed, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Social Anxiety, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, basically everyone is messed up, because, but not really, but sans epilogue, just drarry endgame, kind of, obviously, ok kind of a lie, side character death(s), sorry about that, sort of canon, welcome to life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 18:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1276116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveInAllTheLonelyPlaces/pseuds/LoveInAllTheLonelyPlaces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or What Happens After</p><p>It's after the war; everyone is simply trying to put their lives back in order. Then Draco Malfoy writes a book. And then the fragile balance that had pieced itself slowly together over the last half-decade, falls apart once again and shatters, irreparable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Consequences of Surviving

**_The Consequences of Surviving_ **

_or What Happens After_  

by Lady J

* * *

  **Prologue**

After the war, there was a sudden transformation visible everywhere as spirits were lifted and air was heady with relief, intoxicated by the freedom of the terror that had been; gaiety and merrymaking flooded every avenue save for the crowding cemeteries and quiet corners resided by shrouded figures. Door and windows, that still bore marks from nails, were left open in a careless fashion; the streets were bustling vendors and consumers, pedestrians who took their time and marvelled at simplicity. It was the new growth after a forest fire, flowers blooming to life in the remains of ancient ruins; a sharp contrast of a light in the darkness. To be fair, the doors and windows were heavily warded and charmed, set to provide severe bodily harm at the notice of any suspicious motion; and there was certain tell in the movement from stall to stall in the marketplace, a nervous energy, which cautioned flight at the slightest provocation. This behaviour was simply accepted as commonplace, as one of the consequences of surviving the storm that had barely just passed. This was simply what happened in the aftermath. 

The years that followed proved to incur the greatest amount of reported usages of underage magic, and magic within the presence or, even, upon muggles, to date. Nearly every single one of these cases was dismissed, without a second glance, with the explanation of ‘extenuating circumstances’. The Ministry, after all, already had its hands quite full, what with the required repairs, diminished staff, and influx of foreign emissaries who all aimed to hold a major role in the new governing system that was being put into place not by choice but by necessity and demand. The Ministry now bore the brunt of the wrath of those who had suffered and been silent during the Death Eaters reign. There was also accounting for the high rate of both emigration and immigration in event. The general understanding was that those who had stayed, had weathered through the whole debacle, were of the inclination to leave, go anywhere but the battlefields stained by the blood of their friends and family; whereas the one who had hidden away wanted nothing more than to come home, finally. Of course, there still was the ever present attraction of visiting the home country of the Golden Trio and their compatriots, the famed heroes, and perhaps, the possibility of being fortunate enough to meet one of them, be taken under their wing even, join the ranks of celebrity. However, much to the misfortune of those who sought such things, what they found upon encountering one of the fabled, always fell short of their expectations. Instead of the mythical things of legend that they had imagined, they found simple humans; broken, twisted and aged, but human all the same.

* * *

**Hermione**

Miss Granger, once she had held a brief tête-à-tête with the chosen one and given her curt goodbyes, departed via Portkey for the Australian Ministry, the day after the end; with the promise that she would be back before Christmas. She wasn’t. Nor was she by the next christmas, nor the next, nor the five following. On New Years Eve, after seven years abroad, she returned, quietly accepting the offered Transfiguration post, and slowly, slowly, began to reach out to the people she once called her friends, without a word to any about what had occurred during her absence. The media was beyond perplexed by her actions, and rumours began to fly: she had joined a secret task force dedicated to uprooting Death Eaters who had fled the UK; she hadn’t left the country at all but went underground as a Ministry’s spy, why I swear I saw her in Muggle London just the other day, didn’t you know; she was hiding a pregnancy caused by a lover from across enemy lines; she had been tempted by all the dark powers that she had encountered and had been building up an army to take over the currently frail Ministry. The truth, as it always seems to be, was far less extravagant. 

Upon arriving in Sydney, she promptly booked herself into the first vacant hotel room she found. Shutting the door, she froze and her expression of composure shattered and she slid to the floor, sobbing. The next morning, she awoke, still sprawled across the carpet, her bones aching as the light from the rising sun filtered through the sole window. She caught a bus to the waterfront, bought a cup of tea from a small café, and settled down along the side of the boardwalk, legs hanging over the edge and hot drink cradled in her hands as she watched the waves crash, watched them struggling to make it to the shore, and waited. It became a bit of a routine, broken by the occasional visits to bookstores for new reading material and nights when she frequented a local pub where they grew to know “Jean Granger” by name. “Hermione” had went to war, had fought and killed for her life, had seen others who had not been so ‘lucky’ in their efforts, others who had fallen and hadn’t gotten back up; “Jean” had simply gone on vacation. 

Eventually, she started looking at brochures advertising classes at several universities, but opted instead for signing up for surfing lessons when she understood the amount of paperwork that attending a muggle school would entail. Surfing was completely different from anything else that she’d tried, and was soothing in that aspect. She learnt how to wait for the right moment to ride the perfect wave, how to recover from a crash, how to save someone from drowning. She found a small flat close to the beach and fell asleep to the sound of the ocean. Her finances were fine due to the hefty savings her parents had left in her name, added to by the monetary award she had been presented with in recognition of her valour and heroics in wartime, her childhood traded for a sum. 

Essentially, she had fallen into sense of tranquil security when she met Jason, another surfer who possessed the laid back nature typic to the lifestyle and, more than that, didn’t ask why she flinched away from other’s touch, why she always hesitated before smiling, why she never talked about family or past, and, most importantly, why her arms were never left uncovered. She did confide in him one day, well not exactly with words or any proper explanation as silently revealed the mutilating lines, in all their ugly glory and indicated in coarse, cut-up sentences that she had been in hard places. In all honesty, she expected him to leave now that he was aware of her baggage, and flailed one limb in the direction of the door, gaze cast downwards. Instead he gently gripped the wrist that had come so close to smacking him in the face and, carefully watching the eyes that glanced up in surprise, told her that he knew an artist who could show her the beauty in her scars. Two weeks later, the bandages came off. It was the most glorious feeling she’d had in a long, long time when the sunlight touched her exposed arms, bared with the purchase a t-shirt. 

So when it happened, it came as a complete shock. A little girl wandered up to her while she was about to pick up her board, and told her “Pretty,” as she touched the rosebuds and thorns adorning the now-bronzed skin, and her mother who had finally caught up to her, gasped in exasperation between huffs of breath, “Rosie, what have I told you about talking to strangers. Sorry about that, she has absolutely no sense of fear, or common sense for the matter,” she clucked at the child, scolding, and looked expectantly at Hermione who said nothing, “I suppose it’s slightly our fault for having children so late when we don’t always have the energy to keep up with them. Oh right, how terrible of me, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Monica Wilkins and my lazy husband who is probably still reclining in his chair is Wendell.” She extended her hand out. Hermione didn’t take it. Monica laughed nervously, “I’m sorry, I probably came off as too forward. I’m actually originally from Britain, but the Australian way of life has really rubbed off on me. On us. My husband Wendell is also a real talker, never closes his mouth, that one. But you, you could be from anywhere. You might not even speak english. Oh my goodness, I’m sorry. I don’t usually blather on this much, I swear.” 

Jason, who had observed the entire exchange, cut in and attempted to salvage the conversation, “Actually, Jean is from the UK as well.” 

“Jean,” Monica repeated, “That name seems familiar, I must know a Jean from somewhere. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Jean, it’s always good to run into someone from the home country. Although, it’s been ages since I’ve been there. A couple decades, it must have been. Sometimes it feels as though I’ve never been anywhere but Australia. How odd! Perhaps when Rose is a bit older, we’ll travel…” 

The repetition of her daughter’s name seemed to break Hermione from her trance, “Children,” she croaked, voice still refusing to function normally.

The other woman paused, “Beg your pardon?”

Hermione tried again. “You said children, as in plural. Do you have any others besides… Rose?”

“Oh no, I guess it’s just one of those things you say, although I do think, from time to time, that it would have been nice if we had started earlier. Then I suppose Rose might have had an older sister. I think she should have liked that. I wonder why we didn’t?” Monica stopped babbling in horror, staring at the tears running down the girl’s face. “Oh no what have I said now?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” Hermione wiped at her face, leaning back into Jason for support, “You just reminded me of my mother for a moment; I miss her dearly. It’s- it’s been years… I forget what she looks like somedays. What kind of daughter does that?”

“Oh sweetheart,” her expression softened before becoming determined, “You know what? You should come have dinner with Wendell, Rose and I; Rosie has clearly gotten attached to you,” she looked down at the child who had somehow wrapped herself around Hermione’s leg during their conversation. “I have a good feeling about this,” she admitted, “and our reservations can easily be changed to accommodate another. And of course your boyfriend too, if he wishes to join us,” she added, including Jason in the invite.

Hermione faltered, “I’m not exactly well-attired at the moment,” she said gesturing at her sundress, “But I love- I’d love to.”

“You look great,” Monica reassured her.

After engaging in brief discussion, Jason turned down the invite with the excuse of other plans, “but you have my number,” he reminded Hermione. She lifted her cellphone in acknowledgement. “If you need anything…” he trailed off as he walked away.

The dinner went surprisingly well. Hermione waited until everyone was seated and the waitress had left before uttering the reversal spell. Wands were a mere formality at this point. She practiced this far too many times, holed up in tents, and safe houses, and dungeons, as a last-ditch attempt to retain her sanity. The magic was rusty but it came, and if the restaurant staff or patrons were startled by the excess of hugging and crying that appeared to have no visible cause then they never mentioned it. There was of course the explanation for the very confused three year and the adults unspoken puzzlement at Hermione’s reticence and her abundant apologies, but for the most part, it was joyous. Ironically, the Grangers had come to enjoy the life Hermione had created for them far more than the one they had made themselves back in Britain. “We have more time and desire to enjoy the small pleasures here,” her mother explained, “and the people are so friendly.” Having Rose had been a decision they’d made after spending two years feeling as though they had a void in their life, “Our jobs were engaging and our life was interesting, but we must have missed you even when we couldn’t remember you.” They invited her to move with them but she declined, and they accepted it, recognizing that she was different person now.She did, however, volunteer her babysitting services, which were happily received. They talked about books. They talked about surfing. They talked about scientific advancements and what they meant for the field of Dentistry. They talked about muggle politics. They did not talk about the war.

She learnt later that Rose had a twin who had been stillborn, a baby boy they had named Hugo, after Victor Hugo, who now rested in a nearby cemetery. That Rose was precocious and obsessed with stories just like Hermione had been. That Jason had been working up the nerve to ask her to move in with him. That he didn’t mind that Jean was her middle name. And she had learnt that Rose had magic. Everyone had learnt that Rose had magic.

A week passed before Jason said anything, and when he did, it wasn't what she'd been expecting. “Are you a witch, Jean?” he spoke, voice serious and eyes calm, “It’s just, my sister, I’ve told you about her, she’s a witch; you and her share some of the same… habits. I wasn’t sure until Rose, but you are a witch, aren’t you?” It wasn't a question.

Hermione just looked at him and he smiled grimly with the confirmation.

The next morning, half of the bed was empty, a letter on the bedside table, a floorboard pried open and Hermione was gone. She went to the Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam, Thailand, Burma and Nepal; constantly changing the scenery around her and using magic more than ever. When she had internet, she sent emails back and forth with her family as they updated her on Rose’s progress and she gave them advice and wrote of what she saw her travels. There were the destroyed towns from the Philippines’s latest natural disaster, filled with refugees with dead eyes and screaming babes; there were fisherman of Vietnam who, when asked, told her they were saving the fish from drowning, of all things; and the fascinating secret magical community that straddled the border between Nepal and China, and found her no more interesting than any other western foreigner. It was as she was heading up to Mongolia through the mountains of Tibet when she received an owl from the Ministry with news that made her pale.

She made it back for the funeral, cursing herself for leaving in the first place, knowing she could have done something, spending the whole ride back reciting the letter’s contents in her head:

> Miss Hermione Jean Granger,  
>  It is with regret that we inform of your parents’ passing due to an accident of muggle private land transportation. Since you are listed as one of the remaining family member of the deceased and are currently a temporary member of the Australian Wizarding Community, it is our duty to ensure you are notified of this occurrence. In addition, within the wills of Mr. & Mrs. Wendell and Monica Wilkins, you have been elected as the sole guardian of one Miss Rose Granger née Wilkins, should both of them be deemed unfit for childcare.  
>  Our deepest sympathies,  
>  Muggle Relations  
>  The Australian Ministry of Magic

‘Deemed unfit for childcare’? They were dead. You can say it, you know. Dead. It won’t change anything. A better letter could have been written by a robot. A better letter had probably already been written by robots. It wasn’t unlikely that technology had more soul than the dementors that apparently ran Muggle Relations for the Ministry. And Rose, oh god Rose; Rose could not go into the system. Hermione, she- she would find a job and they would make this work. They had to make this work.

The funeral was a dismal affair, but aren’t all funerals so? There were no words to say, no speeches or bible passages spoken as the dirt was shovelled over the matching caskets. Mr. & Mrs. Wilkins were buried along side their unborn son in the blazing Australian heat that brought sweat stains to the mourner’s blacks. It was arid but quiet, and for that Hermione gave thanks; the few people present were friends and colleagues of her parents or so she assumed. And Jason was there. Apparently, he had bonded with her parents after she ran off again, slipping into the place she’d left behind. He was intent on ignoring her, and she let him, figuring that if he had the choice, he would choose to never see her again. She didn’t blame him. They would have passed by each other without obstacle too, if Rose hadn’t seen ‘Jay’ on the way out and cried out to him. He froze in his tracks, went to turn, stopped again, and then turned completely, face furious, but above all, hurt. “How do you just leave? Jean? How can you be fine one moment, and then flip everything upside-down and walk out the door, the next? Is that the only way you can live? Is that just what you do? I was in fucking love with you and I didn’t mind that I didn’t know your first name or that you didn’t want to talk about your life but never for minute did I think that maybe you had simply left, without a word, for Australia the same way you were about to leave it! When I met your family, all I wanted to do was introduce you to mine. And when you and Rose turned out to be magic, I thought ‘Great, this make things easier.’ And then you left. Would you have ever come back if this hadn’t happened? Would you have?” Hermione doesn’t speak. He sighs like he knows he shouldn’t have expected anything else. “Terrific. Absolutely fucking terrific. You know what, I wouldn’t be saying this if it weren’t for Rose… I still shouldn’t be saying this… but you have my number. If you need anything…” Once he’s gone, Hermione clutches her exhausted baby sister to her and laughs bitterly because the world can almost be hilarious sometimes. And so, she takes the Transfiguration post and goes home.

It’s much more difficult than she thought it would be, juggling a job and being a single parent. Even though Rose goes to daycare everyday, she quickly finds herself with no time to herself. When she is not grading papers or parenting, she is cleaning and cooking and running errands. She never thought she could cook before. She’d just assumed that it was just something she’d never be able to do. Looking after Rose quickly proves that there is a difference between ‘not inclined’ and ‘not able’. Harry comes by, often, to give her a hand but he has his own work and his own problems, she’s not blind. Don’t get her wrong, she loves her little sister; however, there is no more time left to visit bookstores or museums or for seaside vacations. So, it’s not entirely bizarre that she happens to read most of the books she confiscates. She avoids most of the recent biographies, too much propaganda;  stories about wartime written by people who never lived it. There’s really no explanation as to why she read the one she read; perhaps, it was a dull night, and she appreciated that the author had the self-restraint to stay anonymous, or maybe, just maybe, she is slightly intrigued by the title, despite her reluctance to be reminded of what happened. Either way, she picks up “The Children of Salazar: a Slytherin’s Account of the Second Wizarding War” and does not put it down until she turns the last page. And she sits, still in her chair, thinking. And calls for her owl. The Chosen One never sleeps, after all.

Too many nightmares.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So who fell in love with Jason? I want a show of hands. Will we see him again? Nooope. Well, probably not. Do I feed off the your cries of agony? Yuuup.  
> I have no beta, pity me.


End file.
